“How about cold sandwiches for dinner?” she suggests as they walk to her car.
“Fine with me.”
“And how did the trip go?” She stops, which forces him to do the same, and searches his eyes attempting as she does to scrutinize his heart. She’s looking for signs of wavering, signs of that sadness she sometimes associates with the messy something that happened three years ago in San Francisco. She’d kicked him out; Dana, the love of his life, the girl of his dreams, he’d called her. He never adequately told him why their relationship ended and why so disastrously. She wished she had all the juicy, meaningful details a woman wants to know about the ex. But then she’s quick to remind herself that men don’t process their relationships with the fine tooth comb that women use.
“She wasn’t very r
